Broken Toy Soldier
by MistressMorphine
Summary: -The Things They Carried- Does the war ever end? Do the memories ever stop haunting you? No, not for Norman. We all Norman's ending; this is his story. Rated for language and suicide.


This was actually an assignment for my AP English class. Instead of doing a paper on _The Things They Carried_, we did a creative writing assignment. I was actually pretty surprised when my teacher emailed it to me to tell me that she loved it and wanted to submit it to my school's literary magazine. When I talked to the editor, a friend of mine actually, she told me that it was the only submission she liked, but…the administration said they couldn't publish it because of the suicide. Oh the price of going to a Catholic school. So I decided I'd upload it here since I was barred from submitting it to the literary magazine. Strangely enough I'm okay with being told they wouldn't allow it xD I feel like J.D. Salinger and Kate Chopin who were banned for being controversial. This is why people call me weird; I'm proud of being banned.

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At the battle of Waterloo, this is what the soldiers do: left, right, left, right, all the way to Timbuktu…

Three little girls were playing jump rope at the YMCA, with two of girls turning the rope and one girl playing in the middle. I watched them with interest; how many times had I heard that chant from the lieutenant? Left, right, left right. I didn't hear the soft voices of the little girls that day; I heard First Lieutenant Cross's voice in the back of my mind, still haunting me today. How long had it been since I left Vietnam? Months? Years? Everything just blended together. Yes the battles ended, but did the war ever end? I was back home in Iowa, but my mind was still back there in Vietnam. Curt Lemon's body being blown up, Kiowa sinking into that shit field, everything…the images still haunted me, taunting me with their presence and refusing to let me forget. Dear God, why couldn't I just forget? Why did those images still plague me? My only escape from reality, the sweet reprieve of sleep, wasn't even safe. The images played over and over in my dreams, no, in my nightmares like a broken record. Play. Rewind. Repeat. Play. Rewind. Repeat. Play. Rewind. Repeat.

"Hey Mister, do you want to play too?" I looked down to find one of the little girls staring up at me. I wanted to tell her about what soldiers really do, about how soldiers kill or be killed and about how soldiers lose their friends. I would tell her about the shit field, about how I almost won the Silver Star for valor, but I couldn't form the words. I wanted to tell that soldiers didn't skip like her and her friends, but one look at her stopped me. She was wearing a pink sweater and white culottes, but there was something different about her. Her eyes were still innocent; she hadn't seen the horrors. That little girl would grow up thinking soldiers are heroes, but I knew the truth. I knew what soldiers really did.

I couldn't even bring myself to say no. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I shook my head no sadly and the little girl skipped back to her friends to begin jumping rope again. I watched as she began skipping again, counting out her lefts and rights until she messed up. If she messed up, she was allowed to start again. When I messed up, someone died. The little girl's voice blended with Lieutenant Cross's voice, telling me left, right, left, right. My feet carried me to my father's Chevy and I headed to the lake again. I went to that lake every day, going in that same circle.

The two little boys were there again, wearing their knapsacks and holding their toy rifles. One of the boys had broken his rifle; I could see a piece was missing. He was a broken toy soldier. What good was a soldier without a gun? Take away a soldier's gun and what does he become? A man. There's no place for humanity in war; it's kill or be killed. I can't tell you how many times I drove around that lake. Six? Seven? Does it even matter? Around and around I went in that circle, never changing the pattern, nothing ever changing. Nothing ever changed at that lake. Little boys played soldier, old men fished for worthless bass, and I drove around the lake, but after a while the cycle got tedious and I felt the need to break out of the rut I got myself into.

I left the lake to go back to the YMCA. I don't know where the little girls went, but they were gone by the time I got back. All that was left was their jump rope forgotten on the floor of the gym. It was red, white, and blue: America's colors. I picked it up and carried it with me to the locker room. No one was in the locker room at the time; it was late and everyone was beginning to close down for the night. I cleared my throat – the sound echoing in the empty locker room – and began speaking to nobody.

"I almost won the Silver Star for valor," I said to the nothingness. It wasn't like the lake. The locker room didn't have a presence. There was no life there to speak of, no emotional presence like the lake. I wanted to talk about how if it wasn't for the smell, I would have been able to win the Silver Star, but that wasn't what came out; nothing else came out. I wanted to talk about how Kiowa died in that shit field, but I couldn't speak. I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge the guilt. If I won the Silver Star for valor, my best friend would still be alive. If I won the Silver Star for valor, I wouldn't be standing in this locker room, holding a jump rope with the colors I had sworn to defend, the colors I was told to trust. If only I won the Silver Star for valor…but I didn't. The truth was that I let Kiowa die out there and it was my fault that he died in that shit field! Kiowa didn't deserve to die that way. Kiowa didn't deserve to die at all, but especially not like that, not in a field of shit. He deserved to die with dignity, but I couldn't even give him that. I ran away. I was a coward and I left him to die.

The real reason I could never talk about the war wasn't because my father was watching baseball or because Sally got married to Gustafson. It was nothing like that. The honest to God truth was that if I talked about the war, I would have to admit that it was my fault that Kiowa died. I would let everyone know that I was a coward and that my best friend was dead because of me. I tied the jump rope around one of the pipes tightly and pulled on it to make sure it would stay.

"I almost won the Silver Star for valor," I repeated as I tied the rope around my neck and tested the knot. _But I didn't because I was a coward._ The words went unsaid, but no one was there to hear them anyway. I couldn't even admit it to myself. I closed my eyes, shutting out the image of the cold and empty locker room, and saw Max looking ethereal and almost transparent and Kiowa with his moccasins and his Bible. I could hear the little girls and First Lieutenant Cross telling me to march _left, right, left, right_, their voices clashing with each other. I took a step forward toward my fallen friends and then everything went black.

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Hopefully you liked this! I'm not expecting many people to read this, or even review it, since _The Things They Carried_ isn't even a category and I don't know anyone who's read this outside of school, but that's okay. I'm proud of this story either way. Drop a line with your thoughts though!


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